The Wisest Possible Poetry Blog

Winter Calls the Way of Life

2012-02-12T04:38:00.001-08:00

When winter winds down the grey salted pavement
Superciliously spins the snowflakes of grave doubt.
I found trouble brewing around the next traffic light
I found no one to confide in me - neither slams melting.
As trickle face sliding icicles creeping all Ohio
I saw the spears entering my chest via your nose
It came to me you were all really people white
It came to you I had finally found us out now.
And we stood together in a back yard in Gahanna,
Ohio where the winter kills anyone who stands
Around in a back yard loving every minute of it.
We were children of the snow for the briefest ten seconds.
As we sliding down the roof dripped ice pieces of
Drippy freezing clarity that spawned a Snoopy castle.

Autumn Leaves Never Die

2012-02-12T04:37:00.001-08:00

Dancing, prancing, floating leaves excite my sight
Cascading down in wet sheets like chunky rain.
Some fall singly, each one a summer's death knell.
How is this, year after year, they die as they appear?

As at my feet they fall, I pick up one up to study it,
Searching for the secret of its splendorous attraction.
Why is a dead plant part lovely, and so obvious?
Who was its beauty meant to attract and why?

Even though eventually brown, and crunched underfoot
So like the oncoming snow, sticking to my rubber boots
The same way, each one is a microcosmic pageant's
Reflection why in the world do they show off this way?

Russet, orange, yellow as the sun, neither blue nor pink,
They twirl about in midair defiant of their yearly demise.
I envy their colors, dreaming of a death like this for me.
What if I myself radiated the patterns of a dying leaf?

I'd spin around in sophisticated lazy circles as I expired,
Hurling my body gently to the ground in so many colors
And styles that God would have to keep me on Earth,
'Til I crisped brown enough on my edges to finally leave.

Very Large Concentration Camps

2012-02-12T03:24:00.000-08:00

They’re all over the raw planet - not just in the past
There's several in China of "five real different sizes"
There's bunches in Africa they sent my good friends
There's now MANY in the United States of America
It "had" to come - and we all think it's only "them."

It is not us to blame you see for it - but how can we
Ever oppose them; well, I say, write your congress!
Please grab any method you can, and write to them.
I would also say: mount an action, use any weapons;
Find some weapons inventive, and descend on them.
But you will have to get something of yours together
And I sit here, disabled, forever unable to participate.

Anything you can think of, please do so forthwith, but
I am sitting at home, female, unable to make anything.
I feel guilt-ridden, laughed to scorn, rudely obnoxious.
Like all poets, I would jump out a window . . . but can't.

Summer's Rewrite of a Simple Song

2011-06-30T09:21:00.000-07:00

Turning and turning the world's a gyre
Deepmost o'er my head
Yearning and burning the world's on fire
It's deepmost 'til the end
'Til the end.
Baby, seek letters inspired
Carry us side by side
And hand in hand we will ride
Over the side. Turn your magical
Eyes round and around
There is a low only sound.
Carry us throoough the sky
Baby seek letters inspired.

Any Words in Your Light

2010-09-17T23:35:00.001-07:00

If you would be so kind as to read the remnants
Of these brief poems that are our own prose by
The list of this ghost writer named Karen Cole,
You will find that I would make a capable writer
For you, given light for your own circumstances.

Executive Director of Ghost Writer, Inc., Karen Cole writes. GWI at http://www.rainbowriting.com/ is an affordable online professional copy writers, book authors, ghost writers, copy editors, proof readers, coauthors, rewriters, book cover creation, graphics and CAD, digital and other photography, publishing assistance, marketing and promotions, and book and screenplay writers, editors, developers and paid analysts service. We also do presentation and pitch services for your book and/or screenplay ideas to major TV and film industry representatives.

My Award Winning (cough, cough) Poetry

2009-03-28T14:30:00.000-07:00

This blog is going to host all of my poetry, both in draft and final form, as it is being written. I'm going to connect it to my other blogs, too. Also, I'm going to connect it to the International Library of Poetry, where my poetry has won several awards: six Editor's Choice awards, four Best Poet awards, a Who's Who in poetry award, a 2007 Commemorative Poetry Ambassador award, and two Poetry Fellowship awards. I have also won poetry awards through Random House, Noble House, and Reese Tyler publishing.

The Camp that Never Ends

2009-03-23T17:11:00.000-07:00

I want to go off to one side for one
moment and see the mountains.
They are there, over above, covered
with snow as they hug themselves.
In my own mind, I am twenty and
built solidly, and I watch the snow
The gray zone of the peaks making a
pattern so beautiful it attracts
People who fear nothing, not Hell
itself, not falling itself, why
People who identify with Satan,
because of falling into chasms,
Down slopes, and how hard you have
to scramble off a cliff, while
You think you know a ghetto Hell; I
think there is a Heaven far worse,
Collect pay, keep working every day,
getting ready for a united hearse.
But as you leave, you have collected
enough pay, and you had friends,
A cup of Starbucks finally arrived,
near the Camp That Never Ends.

Karen Cole
Copyright ©2009 Karen Cole

Wrap Up of the Epic Poetry

2009-02-24T19:57:00.000-08:00

Children were the eternal answer for those
Who could attain children, by force of mind,
And everything else that is the art of a kind.

However it may be, we don’t all write with sanity.
Comedy writers all pattern ourselves after the
Thing that is in the woods; arrogant laughter.

The sun is now speaking to me through a disguise.
Superman comics have come and gone again.
Comedy is my lunch and my true best meat.

I have been kidding you all along; I am worthy.
I am worthy to live while losing, but not yet.
It is its own dear sweet-hearted childhood pet.

The word “very” connotes virtue too much.
And virtue is almost the thing I cannot touch.
Unfortunately, I have been virtuous.

I was left to gather selfishness all alone by myself.
It is written in the stars that way for all mankind,
That Juliet was Juliet only in her own mind.

I would like to kill Romeo for that alone.
He is my enemy on his purple throne.
But he sent me the loveliest rose-colored photos.

The Phony Promise of Sympathy

2009-02-24T18:06:00.000-08:00

You snore when I wheeze and you drool down my pillow
I hear you coming from the television set underneath
The set of dingy bass drums beating a tom tom beat
I can’t listen to your lies anymore; they’re unsized and
If you tell me one more time that you know me but
I don’t know you, I see your whole superstructure
Revolving around your long attempt to put me, one
Ear at a time, one finger at a time, one nipple at a
Time into an ebony locked box with a dead chicken
Revolving around my name, spouting off sympathy.

Logging Timber in the North West Territories

2009-01-11T14:47:00.000-08:00

In order to keep following the dictates of your sacred
Working souls in chaos order - keeps the money flow
Through credit banks - and it must go ever forward
As lumber and timber camps are history not always aborted,
The Northwest Territories are new, strange raw lands.
I shake - reflect upon what this - aging peccary thus demands.
I saw someone go up there with fourteen giant rusty chainsaws,
People who take down trees through inebriation of concentration,
And you know, if I could be up above, that is exactly what I'd do.

Logging, logging, and eating food in an unearthly paradise of
Green distraction, constantly chanting, Move Forward, and Cut.
As timber falls down, we hear silver wolves howling on the Horizon,
There is a fallen once snowy mountain, and Dear God, there is it,
The mountains with snow aplenty waiting to be climbed and loved,
By overgrown boys who need pay and work and some few girls,
Driving trucks and taking all the work out from the Mexicans
Who need to be driving oh gosh they're already up there, spewing
Coffee from brown hands and curling around the fingers of time.

I can't do all forms of work, as no one else ever can, too, and I
Still long for the Life of Reilly - camping around the trees line!
There is no more beautiful smell for an instant than Evergreen,
A smell worth the blades runs of crashing timber faster than I;
Keep up with the men and boys and women, and log down dust.
But now I can only craft the ripe fruits of poetry, sap and rust.

I Really am Nobody

2009-01-05T18:38:00.000-08:00

I am nobody, and have a lot of experience
Writing; do you see mistakes here fighting?
If you hire me I will work to deserve the money.
Some ghostly Roman Empire dreamed up human
Individuality or something by Jesus; the line,
"No, you're not allowed to be me." Really?

Unfortunately, it was lines transcended, and not
Just by mental patients and people who dress up
Other kinds of people. When you read a book, you
Share souls somewhat with the book's true author;
However, you never really get there from here.
Yes, there is no way to truly be each other.

All such imitations are flattery and nothing else.
I see. I said I’d be them, and you’d not understand.
Yet you are trying something, almost at "my"
Command. You are worried, but as to what you do;
On an errand is what you would seem to have been.
I see through the trees that paper exists, and is

Made out of bark, wood, and also a tree’s piety.
I see death in the woods, and it’s calling to me.
On the other hand, I am a coward unto infinity.
I don't know where the Promised Land was.
It is tantamount to going back home because
There’s no way to go home again – perhaps.

Gathering Selfishness as Needed

2009-01-05T18:33:00.000-08:00

I was left to gather selfishness all alone by myself.
It is written in the stars that way for all mankind,
That Juliet was Juliet once again only in her mind.
I felt a little guilt ridden in my own moment you know.
She and I cohabited and made not too many foes.
Charles Dickens knew the sweatshops and so did Remmie
Peralta; they claim up unseen invisible victims who
Are each other? Yes, that's it. Stand down, not you, but
Them, until the whole universe is only one true friend.

Oh KKK, the thing that thinks only white is the
Way to stay your name. I wish I could think so, individuality
Is but only a sport beyond all of my banality? No dice.
I would have liked a world that didn't consist of white mice,
Albinism being poor sport for indoor global warming.
Of all alike groups of people who were all alike
Within their group, and all protected. It would
Have been better to see more such "individuality";
At least enough to make better fun of the concept.

Move to Canada

2009-01-05T18:31:00.000-08:00

Did anyone here wonder why? How about
The horrible terrible moving Forwards?
Canada is barely settled in lately.
I don't think “human” has ever been up there.
Perhaps some Indigenous People are there.
Yes, they are still there, and not all dead.
In fact, most of them still seem to be alive.

Canada is virgin pure Country for All.
It happens to be the Promised Land.
Yes, Satan the Evil Dude figured it all out.
Was going to invade, but had no political clout.
Not only him, but millions and millions of others;
Decisions were made by any salient brothers.
Really, the county up there is wide open,
The Indians there welcome you and the land
Itself huge and melting back slowly over time.

I have already been helped by my raw appeal.
It hits no newspapers, and then the job is done.
It is me who knows how the Ice Age secretly won.
No one person is the light of the setting sun.
Yet I must survive to tell my tales of your glory;
You lied, you cheated, and finally you did kill.

God Erases my Tenuous Past

2009-01-04T19:35:00.000-08:00

The "White" God is not - our boy Sigmund Freud
That would be your Ernest Hemingway - the trendsetter
Best journalist - never - to cast his single point aside,
Think he was wrong and selfish, and be undenied.

And then you have to make something else's
Journey of Light - anew the Blank World Movement
As the roundest planet in our strangely limited complex
Spins; it precludes all formal unreal bluest oceans
And is bigger than the thing black underneath it.

Find your pen - and carefully thaw out your jottings older for
Works that conspire - let me know when obsequiousness goes.
You have at least three different methods of getting published.
There is no ruthless person ahead you cannot conquer. Keep
Your cool, drink water, and run around the block occasionally.

Will you pay out a onetime $5000 advance ever again? Yes.
Are there twelve books that paint pictures, of an elegant place?
I am locked Canadian unleashed the world tomorrow ahead.

Who'd tell me to thaw my notebook at Him?
This poetry is simply a way of expressing my
Need to continue working on projects aplenty.

Who proves simplified writing works limited?
If simple the words, direct the consequential answers
To musical questions purloined by processor parts
Of computers – notebooks, emails, inelegant starts.

Children are the Eternal Answer

2009-01-04T19:34:00.000-08:00

Children were the eternal answer for those
Who could attain children, by force of mind?
And everything else that is the art of a kind.
How to put it? "They" do not listen to genius.
Also, they do not listen to simples. Frank Sinatra
Is the guide to a universe I can now only comprehend?
It was all to make money all along, oh my friend.

The sun is now speaking to me through a disguise.
Superman comics have come and gone again.
Comedy is my lunch and my true best meat.
Yet every disabled must go down in true defeat.
Every male and female writer who was grown up
In their own mind contemplated something and
Edgar Allen Poe went to the uncertainty principle
Of drunks. He's a loser, and so am I. But he will
Not sleep until I have joined him there in his grave.
I am Susan B. Anthony, and I am already saved.
The word "very" connotes virtue too much.
And virtue is almost the thing I cannot touch.
Unfortunately, I have been virtuous.

To laugh is to eat is to complain is to not sleep.
I have simply lost my sleep cycle and none other
Is the problem I have now to solve. I have already
Defended silent Brother and it is no use anymore.

Ode to a Dead Girl in Ohio

2008-12-29T17:54:00.000-08:00

Ode to a Dead Girl in Ohio

I saw her sitting at a table in the lunchroom
She was as still as death before it struck her
I told her to wear non matching earrings,
Not knowing that fate would take her life.

They found her body two doors down from mine
This was after her murderer came after me,
When I was running on our school’s track team.
He pulled alongside me in his white sedan car,
Saying, “You look tired; climb on in. It’s okay.”

As I had read “The Lodger” about Jack the Ripper,
I didn’t climb into his car. That’s what saved me.
Then my friends like proud Valkyries also dove
Straight toward his car, scaring him away from me.
They then left, saying “No thanks are necessary.”

It was a day or two later they found the body
Of the daughter of a man from my Dad’s work.
I told the disgusted cops that the car was white,
And they let me know that wasn’t good enough.
I don’t believe they ever caught the old man.

What of the dead girl? Was it really her they
Had found, or just another ripper victim – there
Was no way for me to know, and therefore she
Was just another victim of the rippers of Ohio.

Bicycling in Ohio

2008-12-22T17:08:00.001-08:00

I recall my new bicycle, made by Schwinn
It was a Super LeTour 12.2 Kilogram model
That I rode for over 3000 dry and dusty miles
Down the old country backroads, wheat sheafs
Corn fields and open deserted deserts of barren
Plains dominated by cars and ginormous trucks
Which like dinosaurs were so large they knocked
Us off onto the road shoulders, one with windows
Sticking out at the sides like Dumbo ears, squares
As big as my head, suddenly appearing behind,
Threatening to behead me. I simply ducked down
And watched as the truck’s rear window passed
Over my head at some 35 miles per hour. Another
Time, cars kept me perilously balanced on a cliff’s
Edge for about three hundred feet. I was in stark
Bone chilling hell, until I finally turned back onto
The road, squeaking my front wheel a quarter inch
At a time until I made it back into life and safety.
The deserts spreading immensely forever included
A road called Harlem Road that simply never ended.
I went down it only far enough to find out that it
Was infinite; I never passed down that way again.

'Night it Changed When I Didn't Die

2008-11-22T12:58:00.000-08:00

Twenty years ago I ate a cold, wet putrid stone.
The night people had gone inverted on themselves
And turned into their bloody lawn’s personal zone.

Bloody! They were gonna drape the furniture with her!
They thought the papers would scream bloody murder!

If you are poor, gone and starving without a job
When you're black in a ghetto that's almost a mob
And folding in on yourself is nowhere else to go
Because of no real row to hoe - why not do evil?

They were starting to build a night prison there,
A gun turret on top of a 100 foot white tower!
A man put wire, saws and flesh spurning stuff
In his own front yard, to keep out the burglars!

My neighbor, black grandma, without a spouse,
No one to rescue her but young neighborly me -
No shotgun to protect her, and nowhere to be.
Those two boys all set to use the kitchen knives!

She needed her life, her small house and no strife;
To immortalize it was not what to do with a knife!

I don’t mind.
I don’t care.
I’m disabled now.
You don’t understand Black People...

And neither do I.

What, the Do Nothing Generation is President?

2008-11-22T11:03:00.000-08:00

He’s going to save us all. He’s going to makeover my room,
Unveil my tears, and line my tomb with special privileges. He will
Be me, until the sun stands still. He’ll rearrange our wicked furniture
Pay for our cable TV and our space rent, eat all our stale leftovers,
And otherwise leave us all rolling in clover. He’s my Latin Lover.
After he’s done cleaning my room, he’ll also clean my clock.
Then give me a chair, putting a pillow behind my head, and while
Teasing my husband because The President is now my own age,
Put together my sock portfolio and knit my new support stocks
For the dawning New Age. Now the Baby Boom rules the universe.
Hey! Where went the part where he was gonna clean our bathroom?
Okay, Michelle, you’re right. I’m looking for his almighty boom boom.

NOT "The Raven" by Edgar Allen Poe

2008-11-18T19:28:00.000-08:00

"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-
Only this, and nothing more..." from "The Raven" by E.A. Poe

Did you know Poe, fans of whom are known as "Poetasters," was usually roaring drunk out of his mind? He was finally found dead, all sprawled in a drunken heap, draped over the turnstile at a British railway station. And there was no "girl with kaleidoscope eyes," although perhaps now he's eternally with his "lost Lenore." It's also the recent 200th anniversary of Poe's own birthday next year, in 2009.

This poem was neither written while in a drug induced coma, nor while under the influence of that which is known as maryjane, pot, weed or marijuana. It is also not meant to disparage the Black Eyed Peas, which is a most wondrous rock band. Lastly, I don't do pot myself, and the below vision is by an abstainer. That said, LOL at the below, meant to "kick a li'l hippie butt" over Hawaiian Gold - while being a tongue in cheek "Poek" at the memory of a very fine horror and mystery writer.

Once upon a chamber dreary
Where you once knew Timmy Leary,
(A chamber pot and nothing more.)
Over many a quaint and curious substance of forgotten lore,
(Hawaiian gold and nothing more.)
While I toked it, nearly napping, suddenly there came a rapping
The Black Eyed Peas - all gently rapping, snapping at my chamber shore.
“Tis some visitor,” they mumbled, “rapping up my chamber poor,
Only this, no gay men Moors.”

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the Blake September
(sword fighting vampires – nothing gore.)
Of each separate dying ember
And its host that got all floored.
(They arrested Mexico – a Canadian store. When through the tunnel they all bored.)
Eagerly I wished tomorrow
Would pay me surcease of sorrow,
Borrowing that I could hammer in her stud upon the door,
For the rarest radiant maiden whose bull dyke I could ignore,
Only shit, and nothing more.
(Your chamber pot upon the floor.)

Presently my selves grew longer, hesitating then some stronger,
(As Black Elves There held a bonger, some bongs from my past Lenore)
“Sir,” said they, “Or maiden, truly your forgiveness I ignore,
But the facts are, we were napping, and so gently you came snapping,
And so fairly you came gapping, lapping at my chamber’s door,
Meaningless there, and nothing more. Fo’ shor.”
(Black Eyed Peas finally split for distant wars. I was so sore.)

When the Peas then left the building, still my soul there it was stilting,
For as the arrested Mexicans for their illegal stuff ignored,
And as I nodded, feeling nappy, suddenly there came Loud Snappy
As I realized my drugs were in less danger much for sure:
Mexico had been arrested, and the pot gone out the door!
ONLY SH-T NOW, NOTHING MORE!!!

“No,” said the last Pea, simply shifting, and instead my soul uplifting,
Surely someone, I thought to myself, would take pains to me ignore,
I would smoke pot, and nothing more. Maybe salmon, I implore,
As an Indian, as a Black, or as anything else that snores.
Only pot, and nothing more, as your raven ate the door.
(E. A. Poe died of the sauce made of Brazilian guano galore.)

The Sacred Clown of Art - Short Version

2008-11-03T21:01:00.000-08:00

The Moslem Menace is the Sacred Clown of Art.
Writing is sacred because it's read by One Person
That is the God of every story we marked down, but
A book's written and read by One Thousand Clowns.

Math was the Original Reason probably for writing.
Men and women - children counted animals anew.

My friend will someday break free of the arsenic league,
And I must do all the other jobs in the Wider Expansion.

I am grateful a writer and an artist are on the Internet.
He's doing both, I'm doing one; it must be a coincidence
That looks like a wide swatch cut through a tiny place.

A man's wife - and new buck’s ‘mother' – much later
Her – she's a yellow gold old loving alleged alligator
Who is like sunny summer night - and snow covered?
What am I – not a male fetish Viet Nam War veteran!

Is ghost writer - thirty years longest Asiatic shyness later?
Who has made it WAY - beyond brown Alexander, buried
Now in our firm extant huge - and beckoning snow lands,
Damn – even Alex was one of them us Military - and got
Awarded for all the “people” - he helped It exterminate.

And would've made it farther with you aright, but I
Know I would've made it even farther - sans partiality.
I must live for the Cause of Peace, and Worship Lives.
While someone else makes many wives, many wives.

Ashes to Ashes and Dust to Dust, or Ode from a Couch Potatoe

2008-09-21T21:03:00.000-07:00

Outside our front door the wide green world awaits,
As if charging my health beckons open yard gates.
I will die if I don’t get fresh veggie exercise daily;

I will slowly turn pasty, impure, gnarly and palely.
A daily walk making for strong physical constitution
Must be done despite overhead wind’s air pollution.
It will show that my frugal week’s performance at work

Is split by a real player, not your sick sucking old jerk.
At any rate, sprawling ‘pon the sofa sprouting TV eyes
As a couch potatoe – that’s where my own soul truly lies.

Autumn Leaves Never Die

2008-09-12T17:32:00.000-07:00

Woes = Two Dozen Bears

2008-09-12T17:28:00.000-07:00

Seems ‘we all’ need Blondie People above else - but
They don’t, and I would like no explanation for that.
If so, I think I’d need an examination from ‘superiors’
Due solely to the all important vital Missionary Pose,
Which I already knew infant first grade – who didn’t?

An’ we all must completely forget its existence so pure.
I want ‘us’ to move to Saskatchewan - you to vote within
Some Demo who’s running for United States President.
The country has no name forever, but a far better flag of
All the other countries in the world, and why not theirs?

In the darkest reaches of a cosmos I couldn’t obtain too
Easily - which described the Faerian reaches of a Waste,
Outlined by Israel, describing the millionth Moslem beat
I should believe such people are hamburgers, but entire,
Any such reach of those shoot me; however they don’t.

Chomped down in approximately thirty-one seconds, I’m
Not anyone of value to monotony them but career family,
Forty-seven years of age - and y’all still are being followed
By a babbling brook’s non-anti-Semitic force that’s known
As Saturday’s ‘Black Bear’ from Biblical Ohio’s - Gahanna.

The Ice Age Supersedes Global Warming

2008-09-12T17:25:00.000-07:00

This whole 'heat' thing is her nightmares, nor no
Anything one witch you folks have accepted, you
Are really sure you are never going to leave soon,
Or come up with newer stuff, I should yearn to be.

‘Shut up’; the words from anyone, whom I can't see.
Such a group aspersion is never allowed to thee, or
You know, I don't get what is happening to 'my' me.
I’m only getting older, while a world claims it dies.

As Global Warming’s only an Ice Age receding now,
I won’t eat a panic attack while having any dead cow.
No, actually the trees help keep it 'some down' alive.
None are perfect, and all are affected by the weather
As 'workers' can congregate, to await our zone sigh,
A place that is several limbs, no one you to ‘knew’;
Full trencher, I must believe in what we cannot buy,
My inner self whatsoever does it later: ‘foreign hurt.’

Siegel and Schuster, Kane and Finger

2008-09-12T17:22:00.000-07:00

The four above invented Superman and Batman.
Siegel started Superman as a bald villain, then
Found out that didn’t sell, so he and his friend
Schuster changed him into a superhero. That
Sold, and so now we have Superman. In the
Case of Batman, Kane had seen a short play
Called “The Bat,” where the real villain wore
An almost comical bat costume, so Kane
Decided his superhero dressed as a bat
And his friend Finger made a greater villain
As the Joker, which for some reason sold
Although the Joker was based on “The Jew.”
That version was cutesy and funny, and so
It came across all right, and was far better.
Siegel and Schuster ended up set for life,
And Kane and Finger became world famous.

LARGE Death Concentration Camps

2008-09-12T17:20:00.000-07:00

If I Lived Forever Life

2008-09-12T17:19:00.000-07:00

If my life for some reason never ended
And I became in effect immortal, able
To proceed forever in my own direction
What would it be like; would it work?

I’d plot to overtake a vast empire but
Would reign over it as its sovereign heir
Never passing on ruler ship to anyone
Until I had finally dominated the planet.

I would install world peace everywhere
And allow all local governments to rule
Each area, with interactivity universal
And each and every area able to trade.

Universality would be the common rule
I would not institute any military action
And in fact war would be criminal, always
Forbidden; the whole world at one peace.

Winter Calls the Way of Life

2008-09-12T03:55:00.000-07:00

Benvolio and Mercutio

2007-11-01T14:40:00.000-07:00

(Or, How the Heavenly
Gates are Open for Business)

By Karen Cole
Word count: 200

Letter from High Heaven, by a young Mercutio,
To his alive cousins, dear Tybalt, and Romeo:
‘Tis not so deep as a well, nor wide as a church
Door; but ‘tis enough, I tell you as I did before.

I oft dream of a portly gentleman who sought to
Save my life. He laid out roads of strife, to sue for
Danger that was oh so narrow, paved mainly with
The bone marrow of human souls - go Forthwith!

I was going to be a Lifeguard and give way to the
Ocean to lay fish out such fools from impossible
Notions; but tomorrow as today, I am far too petty
Small to be that way. As a boy, I was overly pretty.

I have Benvolio. The guy is everywhere, telling
The villagers by getting between two angry gangs
Of swords to stand down, always to stand down.
Benvolio is adamantly opposed to your gravity.

He was a minor in “Romeo and Juliet” and veritably
Told people he’d rather with swords be run through
Than see it done to me and you. They simply named
A highway after him, which was filthy grey and blue.

But when it comes to bitter Truth, I firmly sought to
Uphold my illustrious Youth. I merely desired to be.
I was, however, Struck or Scratched - but not Nicked.
Signed, Mercutio - How come death was my shtick?

You Are NOT "Disabled, Too!"

2007-11-01T10:47:00.000-07:00

By Karen Cole
Word count: 200

I meant it when I said to you that disability is
Not a “state of mind,” nor spirit, nor emotion.
Tendencies to regard people as the source
Fertility of spiritual essence makes me puke.

“Goodness” is the standard you must bear
When every day the tactic is to be warmer
Than ice trickles capturing the essence of
A cold doubt about when you are disabled.

You’d like to think you’re still normal, also
Always young, forever unmatched by time.
You know the mirror has told you only your
Story: the end of your life being what it says.

Hear voices, feel touches, see sights you’ve
Seen before as you gimp around the block,
Hurting too deep inside at the lack of sanity,
Hearing, “You people are all street people!”

And go inside, pulling your wheelchair over
To the television, having no job and no way
To have sex ever again, or get married well,
And tell me once again that you’re disabled.

Woes = Two Dozen Bears

2007-11-01T10:45:00.000-07:00

By Karen Cole
Word count: 400

Don't advance on bears menacingly. I was just lucky, and when I turned around and left, that's when the bear in this story did almost the same thing as I did.

I’m part Cherokee Native American, and once worked for the National Park Service. As part of my job, I went up this winding mountain trail that was both narrow and long, as the rangers told me to go see their bears, and a six hundred pound black bear raced down the trail, blocking my path. I menacingly advanced, and the bear turned away around, going straight uphill back all the way he’d come. I think my backpack scared him, as it was huge and loomed over me, causing him to get scared and leave.

What is the real value of your own life, and other people’s? Is it the right thing, to risk your life’s blood to stop a bear attack, when no one cares?

Seems 'we all' need Blue-Blonde People above else.
If you don't, then I would like no explanation for that.
If so, I think I'd need examination of your 'superiors'
due solely to the all important vital Missionary Pose,
which I already saw in your first grade - who didn't?

An' we must completely forget true existence so pure. In the national parks, animals must eat to live, and that includes us, as we are now on the menu.

The Park Rangers told me human life is meaningless.
Yet I used it to save people’s lives in this our country.
This nation has no name forever, but a far flung flag
for other countries in the world, and why not theirs?

Does it matter if you should tempt fate and tease Death - if it happens to be a case where other people might die if you don’t? Does your life matter?

In the darkest reaches of a cosmos I couldn't obtain
easily - which described the Faerian reaches Waste,
outlined by Israel, describing the millionth Moslem,
I should believe such people are hamburgers, but
any reach of those shoot me; however - they don't.

So I lived to tell this tale, even though I had been feckless brave enough to attempt to tell a gigantic black bear to go back up mountain in order to eat.

Chomped down in approximately thirty-one seconds, I'm
not anyone's value to monotony folk, but I’m overly proud,
forty-seven years old - and you all still are somehow being
safe by a babbling brook's non-anti-Semitic forces, neither
food for the wild beasts - nor in a country with a real name.

"Woes” = Too Many Wild Bears

2007-11-01T10:44:00.000-07:00

By Karen Cole
Word Count: 300

Headline: Wild Beasts Enter Civilization’s Outskirts

Once in the woods above Stehekin, some Park Ranger
Told me to “go see the wild bears,” face mortal danger.
Finding a 600 pound Black Bear chasing me down the
Trail, I blocked him, so he went around and turned tail.
I simply talked to him like a friend, not like a stranger.

Being part Cherokee Indian helped me tell our Brothers:
Go head up mountain. I talked him back with the others.
But due to Global Warming, bigger, meaner White Bears
Will come down from Arctic Circle - deadly polar terrors.

An’ we all must completely forget their existence so pure.
We need us to move to Saskatchewan - you all to vote for
Some woman who’s running for United States President.
This country doesn’t have a name, but a better flag than
All the other countries in this world - why not run theirs?

In the darkest reaches of a cosmos I couldn’t ever taste
Easily - which described the Faerian reaches of a Waste,
Outlined by Israel, describing the millionth Moslem dead,
I could believe such folks are hamburgers, but I’m afraid.

Chomped down in approximately thirty-three seconds, I’m
Not immortal - only someone who wacked the tree hollows.
Forty-seven years of age - and I still feel I’m being followed
By a babbling brook’s peaceful force whose natives know
As Mountain’s Brother Bear - who only feeds above snow.

The Crystallizing of Gondwanaland

2007-11-01T10:43:00.001-07:00

(Or, Why I Believe in the Ice Age)

By Karen Cole
Word count: 200

This whole 'heat' thing is her nightmares, nor no
Anything one witch you folks have accepted, you
Are really sure you are never going to leave soon,
Or come up with newer stuff, I should yearn to be.

‘Shut up’; the words from anyone, whom I can't see.
Such a group aspersion is never allowed to thee, or
You know, I don't get what is happening to 'my' me.
I’m only getting older, while a world claims it dies.

As Global Warming’s only an Ice Age receding now,
I won’t eat a panic attack while having any dead cow.
No, actually the trees help keep it 'some down' alive.
None are perfect, and all are affected by the weather

As 'workers' can congregate, to await our zone sigh,
A place that is several limbs, no one you to ‘knew’;
Full trencher, I must believe in what we cannot buy,
My inner self whatsoever does it later: ‘foreign hurt.’

The Decrystallizing of Gondwanaland

2007-11-01T10:41:00.000-07:00

(Or Why I believe in the Third Ice Age - not Global Warming)

By Karen Cole
Word count: 200

Many eons ago, millennial life lived in one palace
Of a forming icy Earth; one continent, one island,
A mystery called Pangaea or Gondwanaland - but
The land melted, speeded out wide, lives opening.

Over time, the First Ice Age receded, allowing life
To move so vastly over Earth it conquered lands;
Then came the Second Ice Age - we’re in the Third
To fret of death by Global Warming’s just absurd.

“Shut up!” Words from anyone, whom I cannot see;
Such a group aspersion is barely allowed to thee, or
You know, I don't get what is happening - as my me
Is only getting older, while a world prepares to die.

As Global Warming’s only an Ice Age leaving slow,
I won’t eat panic attacks while not pushing my plow.
No, actually our trees help keep it “some down” well
None are perfect, and must continue onward to Hell.

As “workers” will congregate, to await a zone sigh,
A place that is several limbs, no one you to “know”,
Full trencher, I must believe in what we cannot buy,
My inner self says - move Northwest to better snow.

This whole “heat” thing is their nightmares, not new.
Something which your folks have to accept - if you
Are really sure you are going to leave, and so soon,
Please come up with newer stuff: live on the Moon.

Roses of Sharon

2007-11-01T10:34:00.000-07:00

By Karen Cole
Word count: 100

(I wrote this poem in honor of any non-Japanese who
kept Japanese-American property safe on Bainbridge
Island, WA, during the WWII Japanese-American
Internment. If there even were any such people. Most
other Americans ripped off J-A property, and bought
their houses from the US government for cheap.)

Roses of Sharon

Are broken sideways.
The moon is the guide,
time and time again,
muddy as bean-paste
mixed with vinegar.
Oars hit waves.
My old self sits again,
with a bit of madness in me.
A big ball of snow,
not quite his fill;
piercing alarms to drive a badger away,
the beautiful pears ripe in his garden,
who my neighbor truly is.
In a way, it was fun not to see Mt. Fuji in foggy rain.

Pregnant Because I'm Pregnant

2007-11-01T10:33:00.000-07:00

By Karen Cole
Word count: 200

And I’m telling it to whatever’s out to get me
That I’m pregnant
I’m secretly hoping to whatever Gods there be
That I’m pregnant
And I watch to the stars and I dream about Mars
And I eat nothing but sterling silver candy bars
So I’m pregnant.

If my husband can ever wake up and see
That I’m pregnant - the lie is - I’m pregnant.
I’ve never thought I was a woman my whole life,
And I don’t deserve baby. Who is already wonderful
Daughter Angela not imaginary, I think she is.

And if I wake up to myself being two people
Like last time, when an unknown entity resided
So deep within me, I never wanted it to leave,
And want to keep him or her safe deep in there
I will never hit anyone like that ever again -
Because last time, when I lost my bad temper,
My daughter had to learn martial arts from me.

On File With You

2007-11-01T10:32:00.002-07:00

By Karen Cole
Word count: 100

I wonder ‘bout the ‘you all.’ You can’t be real;
you're all pink all over or under and so that's
the way I feel. I'm a Hemingwayan really - and
if literature would be the ruddy food of choice
for vegetarians who like me care to feed upon
small children eating the scenery with smiles,
I'd think I could win this contest of popup ads
and spurious promises by being of the crowd
which could win against the others in order to
make wealth or produce any sense of sublime
accomplishment. If it could ever come to pass
that all of the above was made of yellow glass.

My Word Program

2007-11-01T10:32:00.001-07:00

I wrote this on a day with a lot of ennui, in order to have some more poetry in my portfolio. I get a lot of gestalt and circumstance when I'm on the computer, which is the main love of my life nowadays, and I have to work hard to come up with new material in order to create new poems. It's tempting to add a lot of nonsense and non fortuitous circumstances to my material, but I have to transcend such witless behavior and manifest new ideas and formats for my poetry at all times.

My Word Program

By Karen Cole
Word count: 200

My computer fixes a fatal ellipse that time can due erase
It creates new programs of fatality to God of empty place;
As they came to take away the sheets I felt a sad despair
That tho bereft I made my peace and still was everywhere.

The word at online magazines was no humor was allowed
And then everyone said stop being gay - as Hell’s a Crowd
Departing slowly, eating a delicious worm where you’ll see
The future, the past, the present and rose’s code’s society.

I killed the time writing poems for a ghost that never meant
When urbane retarded folks allowed in brazen banishment;
If logical words could suit me, then I knew I’d look half clad,
Withal acknowledging the feeling I’m ever being O Galahad.

I have to save everyone’s lives at great cost to my own loves,
And be the very last nonsense which attempts to vary proofs
That to be or not to be is older than the golden feats of Rome;
I know insane society exists solely to invade my happy home.

Messing Up My Life

2007-11-01T10:28:00.000-07:00

By Karen Cole
Word count: 200

If I meant it when the world said that disability
Was the essence of a state of mind and came
To regard me only as the source of its fertility
While never treating me “well” - or the same

It’s “good” that is the standard that you bear
When every day the tactic is to seem solid
Ice trickles capturing the essence of the cold,
Cold doubt about you whether you’re disabled

You’d like to think you’re normal, and always
Forever young, forever unchallenged by fate
You know the mirror has told you its only story
The end of your life being all it can truly relate

Hear voices, feel touches, see sights unseen
Gimp around the block while hurting too deep
Inside at the lack of a reality, hear completely:
“You people are all transients!” - Or one creep.

Fed on a Rival

2007-11-01T10:27:00.001-07:00

By Karen Cole
Word Count: 200

When my daughter was born in hospital,
They laid her next me as they sighed. She
Squiggled with grape jelly blood between
Her teeny tiny thimbles of crusty new toes.
Then nurse went off far away to bathe her,
Wheeling me to room in angry impatience.

After seven long hours of brainfree TV
I finally got up, spasming from five cuts
Doctor had made over deep to get baby’s
Supposedly “too big” head out my body.
I limped the way toward nurse’s station,
And demanded they bring me my baby.

After yet another entire half hour of Hell,
One wheeled Angela to my lonely room,
Leaving after spouting, “You don’t know
Anything about babies. You won’t ever
Do anything right.” She left me crying;
But I lifted high my chilly, chunky child.

Then I lay supine on the frozen sheets of
Snow, letting Angela lolly about ever so
Lightly betwixt my sagging bags of milk.
I breathed, watching her wiggle like a pup.
And drawing her into the warm rhythm of
My breath, I gathered her head firmly up.

Beautiful City - Beautiful Ciudad

2007-11-01T10:23:00.002-07:00

By Karen Cole
Word count: 300

Sir Alfred Lord Tennyson wrote this centuries or so ago - and I ran across it during the Moslem riots in France. We've been at war, Christians, Jews and Moslems, for a very, very long time.

His poem seemed timeless, so I decided to try to make an updated version of my own with the same original spirit that Sir Alfred managed to put into it...somehow.

Beautiful City

Beautiful city, the centre and crater of European confusion,
O you with your passionate shriek for the rights of an equal humanity,
How often your Re-volution has proven but E-volution
Roll’d again back on itself in the tides of a civic insanity!

And now, my version:

Beautiful Ciudad

Wondrous City of Lights, Parisian originalle,
Bent to the War, Moslem Jew and Christian banal.
Torture and hedonism lend to your spired Tour d'Eiffel,
The results of tolling church bells medieval.
Which cannot erase any o’ the things been done;
In the name of God as side, side as God -
Nothing new is under the blood-swollen sun.

This seemed timely due to the recent huge riots in Paris. Looked like all those French Moslems decided to “get uppity.” The reason I used the Spanish word for city, "ciudad," instead of the French word for city, is due to the act of terrorism awhile back where an entire train was blown up somewhere along the tracks to Valencia, Spain.

I believe myself that we are now altogether in the wasted throes of World War III. And even though the current Middle East conflict began in the 1940s, the actual ME battle has been raging between the three major Western religious groups for centuries – no, millennia.

It will be a long time in fact before we see any end to what is going on, if we ever truly do so.

Anything in Your Light

2007-11-01T10:21:00.000-07:00

Karen Cole
Word Count: 60

If you would be so kind as to read the remnants
Of these brief poems that are our own prose by
The list of these women named Karen Cole,
You will find that I would make a capable writer
For you, given light for your own circumstances.

About Watergate

2007-11-01T10:19:00.001-07:00

By Karen Cole
Word count: 200

The Gods and Goddesses of television who
Signed off in the middle of three trials that lasted
Kept lingering in my mind forever as the Trials that
I must be put through, to mean nothing in the end.

I fought them all off, one as a child, another
As an adult, watching my “black brother,” and he
Nestled in my TV hand like a bird on a leaf when
Scott Peterson came out of the Woodward and
Bernstein toddling off all about Watergate.

The tears I shed for the dead victims were real
But Watergate, Watergate in the end,
Is how I inevitably feel. Do you know what I
Mean how to be smaller than truth is always
Obscene?

I can't understand how the three trials
Or what they really were had to do with each
Other; it's what they had to do with each other,
All being the same length, and of no length at all.

About Bill Gates

2007-11-01T10:17:00.000-07:00

By Karen Cole
Word count: 200

Opening slowly to the Internet are the big Windows
Of chaos's charms and the sparks of bright desires.
This is the age of the Silver Surfer who next aspires
To home businesses and the clever sports of fools,
Bending over backward to create artwork that rules.
Fan fiction that rocks is the freebie standard of one
When you own websites, blogs, wikis or email fun.

We list our products for short sale - and multiple cars
Are lined up to be viewed later on real Venus and Mars.
This is the night of expanding of virtual online games
And the ever changing problem of creating silly names!

Invisible are your buddies until their pictures are seen,
As the universe gets on is safe and even keeps serene.
The keyboard door of order's dreams is still unknown,
As usernames and passwords are seldom overthrown.
We choose to bring up the Ice Age as Play on Demand,
With colorful search engine optimization taking a stand
For those recreating the Crystallizing of Gondwanaland.